


Bury Them Deep

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Balrogs, Blood, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trauma, Violence, War, or maybe just a possibility not ever explored in canon, so more like canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 12:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15605829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: The Nirnaeth rages, the shadows of the Thangorodrim cast an ancient terror over the land, and Maedhros meets something upon the battlefield that he does not expect.





	Bury Them Deep

**Author's Note:**

> So you can all blame the wonderful @crackinthecup on tumblr for egging me on to write this little monstrosity. It quite heavily references themes from my earlier work, An Evil Cradling (super NSFW) detailing Maedhros' experiences in Angband, but can be freely enjoyed without ploughing through that bundle of fun. I promise, this one is far less graphic, though you should still pay attention to the tags if such material might offend. Enjoy!

Carrion birds wheeled low across the ash-grey skies; the sun struggled grimy and red through the smog. It cast the field below into twilight, a corpse-light, shadow-less and strange. There in the gloom bodies heaved, writhed, screamed; warriors were hewn by swords of cruellest metal and fell gasping to the dust below. The mountains rung with the clamour of them, the arid scree of the Anfauglith was set alight in wrath, as men and elves and orcs bled into thirsty soil.

In such short hours how many were slain; upon that barren field there fell numbers beyond the reckon of count. Aloft and proud against the eastern skies hung the great banner of the House of Fëanor, and many of the houses of the Edain and Eldar fluttered behind; the challenge of the West unfurled in its wrath, and the black armies of Angband rose in vengeance against it. For hours now gone the battle had raged; in slow, cataclysmic turmoil those two great Powers were locked, and the ground beneath them grew churned with gore.   

What manner of viscera now streaked the sword and shield of Maedhros Feanorion no bard should care to name. For his noble gear now reeked of destruction, of war, and though he had laboured still his sword was steady, his shield was resolute, and about him his alliances held firm. Upon the crest of his battalion he faced the enemy, outnumbered yet not outmatched; he cleaved through them like a scythe among wheat. Hard up against the eastern hills he pinned them, pressed hard into the foothills of the bleak Ladros on the eastern borders of Dorthonion they foundered, disarrayed and wavering, until at last they broke, and his battle became a slaughter.

It was over quickly; Maglor and Caranthir swept up with their great hosts and held the area firmly, and amid a short break in the melee it was agreed that with a small retinue of warriors he should cut a path up into the shrouded hills. Within those craggy outcrops the enemy was well entrenched; sharp eyes spied upon the Noldorin movements to the south and east, and ever their treacherous messages flitted back to the dark power in the North. Those secrets were precious; far better they should be left severed and flailing amid the rocks, and so secret remain. 

Indeed, Maedhros was resolved, his brothers could command the field as capably as he for the moment. He would rout the enemy from their vantage points, he would blind their prying eyes and claim their lookouts for his own. 

Smoke curled amid the gullies of the rocks as he and his retinue scrambled amid them; it clung in their throats with the taste of rust. Grimly they endured it, and he bade his company press on, though hard was their labour amid the pathless foothills of the Ladros, all glaring cliffs and sliding, slippery gravel.

Upon a wide outcrop of rock some three hundred metres above the field Maedhros at last halted the company, and for a few moments they rested. The shield that he carried, though lightened by the cunning metalwork of Curufin, was still a burden upon his maimed right arm, and the weakened muscles of his shoulder bore it heavily. It was only with a fresh sip of _ikrilli_ from a vial borne at his hip that the cramping in his shoulder was eased, and more steadily he came to bear the shield's weight as the potent brew swept through his veins.

He grimaced as its aftertaste lingered upon his tongue; a sickly sourness caught in his throat but he heeded it not, for how it fortified him; bold and tall he straightened up, and coolly he looked out through the smog-haze that shrouded them. Yet for all his composure swiftly he bit back the flush of nausea that rolled in his stomach, and the tremors that came after; the jitters of muscle, the anxious scraping of nerves, like wire sliced through pliant flesh. For the _ikrilli_ was not gentle, indeed he used it only at the greatest of need, but it served his purpose well enough to bear its ill effects. Taking new heart, a great swell of vigour flowed through him, and he roused his company, and higher still they climbed into the dour hills.

Northwards they turned, and the gloom deepened as they ascended; it appeared as a grainy cataract scattered over the field now fully obscured below, though through the murk the sound of battle came muffled to their ears. Upon the listless breeze it was carried; it amplified weirdly in the hollows of rocks, and though some of his retinue hesitated at such ghostly echoes, by them Maedhros was undaunted. 

For fouler things than mewling shadows haunted these lands; the ghastly Thangorodrim towered up to the north like great pillars of darkness, their jagged peaks smeared away into the cloud, and the evil that lurked at their base was but a heart of corruption at their roots. He bore scars enough of that country, white and nerveless they burrowed through his skin, and yet as he looked, still a twinge of pain thrummed in the ugly whorl of flesh branded into his chest. 

Cold was his gaze upon that distant place; cold, and aching, and angry. He turned away from it, and from all of the pain that it held. 

For a long while they hunted amid the hills; two of Maedhros' company were skilled trackers even amid such bewildering landscape, and through ravine and dell they stalked, across tor and ridge they crouched and crept, and black ichor flowed across the stones in their wake. Merciless were their blades, in stealth they purged the hills of foes; they gouged out prying eyes and triumph glinted in their hearts at the glee of their doings.   

A glimpse of flame showed atop a wide spur of rock jutting north-east from the hillslope, and silently Maedhros beckoned his company towards it. Across the low flanks of the slope they made good pace, concealed by overlapping deadfalls of staggered rock they moved unhindered, ever climbing upwards towards that errant flare and the careless spies that lurked behind it.  

Behind a scattering of boulders they gathered themselves; beyond them lay a short drop and then a flat swathe of rock leading out to the spur, and it was agreed that from their position to the south they would approach the enemy. They should flit in behind and so take them unawares; knives were clutched anew in gore-stained hands, and grimly the company readied themselves. Yet peering through a gully in the boulders Maedhros' heart suddenly sank, his blade stilled in his hand as he beheld his foes, and even his bold spirit gave pause. 

For no squabbling, witless orcs were these, no; standing tall upon the precipice a Balrog loured, a demon dripped in living flame. Huge and menacing it glowered there, its fell wings alight, outstretched; in its clawed hand a great trident of shuddering flame was grasped, and a coiled whip of glowing embers hung at its waist. The very air about it shimmered, it moiled with heat and vile sorcery, and hatefully Maedhros looked upon it, looked past it; for in the midst of that greasy effervescence another figure stood, smaller than the Valarauka but no less evil.   

Imperiously it stood, richly clad in blackened plate steel it gazed down upon the battlefield, and as it turned its head Maedhros glimpsed its helm. A full-faced visage of steel it wore; a grotesque wolf's head gaped into the smoke, open-jawed and feral, a monstrosity of metal and thaumaturgy to mask whatever lay beneath it. Sudden anxiety bloomed in Maedhros' stomach as he looked upon it, as the Balrog shifted. Ravens chattered about the masked creature's feet, they carpeted the rock in a mass of glossy black feathers, calm and still and profoundly unnatural. 

One sat upon the creature's raised arm, or so Maedhros thought that he could see, it cawed and croaked there in its alien tongue, and what guarded secrets of the West that it betrayed he would never know. For suddenly the raven took flight, and the tiding followed; as one they launched beating into the air, a warring clash of wings and talons that swept low over the Noldorin company as they hunkered down into the rocks, before speeding away to the north. 

Whether they were discovered or not Maedhros could not know, and for a fleeting moment he considered retreat, a tactical, prudent withdrawal, but then his heart hardened. To quail now would be unthinkable; he would shake the enemy from the hills, for so was allotted his place in the great designs of the West, and in this he would deal them such a blow that the very Thangorodrim would tremble to behold it. His foes were few, and he was many, and he was vengeful, and he was _strong_ ; the blood of Fëanor was undimmed in pride and wrath yet, and with a fierce look to his warriors he raised himself up, and vaulted over the boulder before him.          

Down into the stony dell before the broad sweep of the outcrop he jumped, and swift behind him came his company; into a tight phalanx of bristling blades and locked shields they closed about him as the creatures upon the precipice turned. 

The fiery pitchfork blazed in the Balrog's hand as it sighted them, it roared in furious challenge as oily flames burst across its shoulders, a hissing blaze of sparks leapt from its wings now arched back as it swung about to face them. But the creature at its side raised a hand, the wolf's helm leered emptily as it turned towards them, and at its gesture the Valarauka subsided, though its glowering claws still clenched about its weapon. 

Forth the helmed creature strode, and its armour reflected nothing; a dun ash-black it threw back no light, no glimmer. The bone-white hilt of a long dagger showed at its belt, and warily Maedhros eyed the great weapon strapped across the creature's back, a cudgel yet shadowed by the shifting haze. 

"My, my," the creature spoke, its voice low and rolling and sinister. "What wayward cur slinks about these hills?' 

About it the air swum thick as cream; sorcery wound in evanescent swirls about the creature as it moved, it shrouded the truth of it from even Maedhros' sharp perception. For when he looked at it he saw only imagos, soft, silvery ghosts, and yet he was not deceived. All the tighter he gripped about the hilt of his sword as the creature strode forwards, and hard he glared at it as it halted a few metres short of the Noldorin company. 

"Surrender yourself, thrall of Morgoth," he cried; tall and proud as a Lord of the West he drew himself up, he clasped his burnished shield before his chest and held his bright sword at the ready. "Be gone. Fly back to the heel of your foul master, and there await your doom!" 

"Crawl back to the arms of your brethren, elf," the creature retorted; with arrogant poise it stood opposite him and drawled, "Though love them not; their vices are many." 

At that rebuke quick anger stoked in Maedhros' heart; the sheer audacity of the beast's speech was _galling_ , and sharply he said, "Be gone, fiend! The wrath of the Noldor is upon you; the might of the West glimmers upon our swords. Flee back to the shadows, lest the dawn set you ablaze!" 

For a moment the creature stood unmoved, and through narrowed eyes Maedhros watched it. A graven image of stone it seemed, beautiful and hideous and shimmering in puissance, until a thin, hollow laugh sounded from behind its helm. It echoed through its ghastly snarl, mocking and cruel, and it chilled the blood in Maedhros' veins. For deep down within him some dark instinct chimed; that laugh, _that laugh_ , it seemed almost familiar, but he was mistaken, he must be mistaken. How hatefully familiar was all of Angband's malice to him now, it scarcely moved him anymore, and yet still an uneasy pressure gathered at his temples as the creature before him tilted its head. 

"The might of the West?" it said, and warily Maedhros eyed it as it reached up to its armoured chest, as it undid the straps that ran across it, and from its back into its hand a tremendous weapon swung. A morningstar, Maedhros thought it, though perhaps in Angband's twisted tongue it had another name not so fair; a deadly spire of gnashing, serrated blades capped a metal shaft carved deep with ugly runes. Through the creature's mailed hands it throbbed out its puissance, its thirst for destruction; the creature held it casually, and how threatening was the empty gape of that wolf's helm now.   

"The might of the West," the creature leered; its metal teeth poised and pointed in the struggling light. "You invoke dead names on traitor's lips, elfling." The creature stepped forward and swiftly Maedhros raised his sword, the phalanx about him tightened, and his heartbeat quickened within his chest as it continued, "Your power was broken long ago, squandered in jealousy and petty greed. What might is there in the dying West? Pacts sworn amid races sundered by history, by fate, alliances held by conniving blades and oh so fragile trust." 

"Yea," the creature breathed, its head raised as if it were listening, to the mournful whistle of the wind and the distant rumble of battle. "Even as we speak, I hear your alliances come undone." 

Sudden dread spilled through Maedhros' veins; he knew not what such words might portend, but there was something in that voice. It shook him, deeply, _too deeply_ , those fluid syllables stroked cold memories, and toyed with things far better left buried. Disquiet gripped him, and within the phalanx he hesitated, he wrestled with himself, until about him he felt his company bristle and brace as the creature advanced, before halting once more some short metres from them. 

"Come!" the creature said suddenly. "Come! We will have sport ere the day is done. Prove to me your supposed righteousness, show to me your professed might of the West that I might know terror before it. Readily I would surrender before one so doughty in arms; I am ill-equipped in gear of war, and my heart lies not in battle." The dreadful morningstar turned in the creature's hand; it glimmered thirstily in the light. "But how ever should I explain such cravenness before the throne of my lord? Nay, _nay_ , I should not be named _craven_. Come, elfling, show me now your great lordliness, your chivalry. For surely I am outnumbered by your fearsome troop. I shall dismiss my guard, and yours shall accompany him, until they are far removed from this place and may part as they see fit. Let our steel alone ring the clearer of these muddied words." 

Something barbed ran in the creature's tone, subtle puissance wove amid its words; tighter and tighter they seemed to squeeze until Maedhros' head pounded with the peril of it. For how such taunts itched within his blood; they stirred reason to vanity, they stoked ire to fury, hard he gritted his teeth and defiantly he shook his head even as that stinging, strange, _familiar_ puissance wound about him. Hollow-eyed the creature stared at him, indifferent, _arrogant_ ; goading pressure throbbed through his skull and beneath it he wore thin. 

Again and again the beast's words played through his mind; he should retreat, this he knew, there was something uncanny at work here, something beyond his ken. It would be sensible to withdraw, yet cowardly, _cowardly_ : he was no coward. The blood of Fëanor yet ran true in his veins, it wreathed him in its pride, its indomitable vigour surged up within him and indecision turned to purpose, and wisdom fell to rashness as he raised up his face. 

A feral light glinted in his eyes as he snarled, "I accept your challenge." 

At his signal his company retreated, and the Balrog shadowed their steps, and though the mutual misgivings were writ plain across their faces he heeded them not. For how that creeping, inexorable ire stoked to cold anger as that infernal creature stood silent before him; he hefted his sword to the ready and bore his shield squarely across his front.   

Amid the grey murk his eyes narrowed as the creature strode forth, it paced in a measured, predatory arc before him, and even that simple motion was an abhorrence. How vulgar was the gape of that wolf's mask, how empty were the sockets of its hollow eyes, subtle puissance shimmered about it and he hated it, he _hated_ it; he near hissed at it in spite as it sauntered before him. The morningstar turned idly in its hands, the bladed truncheon rotated back and forth, back and forth, deviously languid and crawling with sorcery; it shook him, it unnerved him, it sent spike of adrenaline slamming up through his veins and in one explosive leap he darted forwards. 

A wide, testing sweep he cut towards the creature's shoulder; his sword met the parry of its truncheon with a grinding crunch of steel. But he was sure of himself, he was readied; he twisted aside as their weapons made contact, he rode the swell of momentum to slice down hard towards his foe's knees. In a smooth stride it backstepped him, it swung a lazy blow to his chest in return, but he turned it aside across the flat of his shield. The morningstar grated along the reinforced metal, and it was not the impact of it that staggered him, no; with a strong thrust of his arm the weapon scraped away.

No, it was the puissance that fizzed into life as weapon met shield, the scrabbling, clamouring, _sickening_ rush of it, for a moment the ground before him reeled, and hurriedly he pulled himself back. 

Unnatural pressure thrummed in his veins, his heart beat in his chest hard enough to hurt as sudden fear seized him, though he could not yet give it name. Hard he breathed, his gaze upon his enemy was piercing, yet still instinct squalled within him; something was wrong, something was wrong, that puissance, that evil, cloying magic, it was _wrong_. It could not be, _it could not be_ , it was so awfully _familiar_ ; horror speared through his stomach as a blade of ice as black memories stirred within him. 

"No," he breathed, behind his shield he fought to still the tremor that crept into his limbs, it could not be, he did not believe it, his eyes flared wide as he looked upon the creature anew, and the coy cock of its grinning wolf's helm set his heart aflame. 

It was not possible, the fates could not be so cruel; a growl contorted his lips as he lunged forward, and the creature pivoted to meet his thrust. Fast, terrifyingly fast, the point of his sword was knocked aside by the sturdy shaft of the morningstar, and swiftly he dodged the strike that followed. Momentum twisted him; a barrage of sword-strikes he sent flurrying towards his foe, hard, cutting, _ferocious_. And yet perhaps too ferocious; with each parry upon that foul truncheon puissance burst into the air, it sparked, it stung, like a biting fly might torment a bull it made him reckless. 

A tremendous blow he cut towards the creature's gaping helm, the full force of his body twisted into that blow, and suddenly his blade was stopped. It stuck quivering against the shaft of the morningstar, whipped up quicker than sight, quicker than was _possible_.  

Fear trembled with shock through his arm still ringing from the concussion of that blow, and dumbly he staggered backwards, but faster than he the creature moved; it feinted towards his unguarded right before battering at the edge of his shield, and pain howled through his maimed arm as it bore the full force of the strike. Black puissance glittered, wild terror bolted through his veins and hard he clamped down upon it, he backstepped, he dodged even as his mind reeled, as every instinct in him blared in such awful, paralysing recognition. 

Again the creature hammered upon his shield, he held it fast before him as once more that puissance engulfed him, tearing and crackling and _evil_ , the wolf's head leered over him and its malice clove him asunder, it pierced right down to the bone and like the flood loosed from a straining dam he knew it. He knew it, and it knew him, and he couldn't breathe, it was as if the air had been stamped from his lungs and he couldn't _breathe;_ horror seized in his guts and gulping he staggered backwards, it was madness, it was _madness_ , suspicion crashed into realisation and gutted him with truth.   

For with one mailed hand the creature reached up to its helm and drew it from its face, and with despairing eyes he looked upon that which most haunted him. Blond hair spilled unbound across the creature's shoulders, eyes like iron scoured him and it was that smile; that cruel, hungry smile, it peeled back skin, it salted wounds, it left him skewered and bleeding and gasping through time and how pathetically he blanched as cold memories turned within him. 

"Well met by sword, Maitimo," the lieutenant spoke, and vicious laughter danced in his eyes. 

"Ill met by violence, _fiend_ ," Maedhros spat; desperately he fought to still his trembling hand clenched hard about his sword-hilt, he thrust aside the torrent of evil memories that sought to drown him. 

"How sharp you have grown, Maitimo," the lieutenant crooned, and how Maedhros abhorred his cradle-name upon such treacherous lips. "How war-like, how bold. I remember once your cries were so much sweeter." 

His heartbeat thudded too loud in his ears; there was venom laced in the lieutenant's every word and how potent it was, anger and sorrow and disgust wrenched as one in his guts and in their wake there was ruin, there was _weakness_. It was all that he could do glare back at his abuser, and through gritted teeth he hissed, "Be silent." 

"Why?" the lieutenant smiled; he turned that dread morningstar within his hands as if it were a child's toy. "To reminisce is decadence, Maitimo. We are so fortunate to have its luxury. Let us indulge while we may. For the Powers of Arda are set in motion, don't you know? The might of West makes show of its _indomitable_ strength. We weary folk, might we not take pleasure in its theatre, in the sheer, glorious spectacle of it?" 

To that Maedhros was silent, and the lieutenant sighed, "Though, ever your interests were bland." 

A snort of derision rose in Maedhros' throat, and once more he sought to master himself, he raised his shield and sword and spat, "Stop it." 

"Oh, you were so plaintive," the lieutenant drawled; he took one sauntering step forward, and then another. "Soft, and weeping, such beautiful weeping... Did we truly hurt you so much?" 

Those words were vile, insidious; puissance rolled beneath them and how deeply he despised them. How deeply they made him afraid. For they dredged up memories long consigned to blackness, they drew him back to a time of hurting, a time of helplessness, they drew him back and bound him there and under their weight he crumbled away. 

"Stay back," he cried; the words trembled in his throat and how vulnerable they sounded, how pathetic, how _stupid_. Viciously he batted that thought aside, he severed its vines though its roots burrowed deep, and as the lieutenant took breath again to speak then sudden rage boiled up inside of him. 

It had no name in Elven tongues, a snarling, hating, panting thing; from despair it drew strength, from pain it drew steel, and with fey power it flooded him, illumined him. It made him _invincible_. A feral light shone in his eyes as he snatched up his sword, a growl contorted his face as he leapt forwards, as with every ounce of anguish that was welling up in his stomach he swung at the lieutenant. 

A slicing blow he carved through the smog, yet before him the lieutenant melted backwards, and his sword fell clean through empty air. But seething anger filled him now, it made him sharp, and he was ready, he was strong, _he would never feel like that again;_ towards the lieutenant's knees he struck, then with a flick of his wrist angled the blade upwards. It smashed into the hilt of the morningstar with jarring force, it knocked the smug little smirk from the lieutenant's lips as violently the blow was turned, and for a moment they parted. 

Sweat beaded upon his brow as again he lunged; he sent a glancing blow snaking out towards the lieutenant's side, but again his sword slid through bitter air as the lieutenant outstepped him, and with a deathly flurry of blows he was repaid. A grimace split his face as he dodged, a breathless cry fell from his lips as he parried, twisted, ducked; again and again the lieutenant swung at him, and again his own advances were repelled. 

From the cover of his shield he lashed out, but swifter than his eyes could follow the lieutenant danced aside of him, the morningstar came wheeling round and a crunching blow struck hard across his hip. A gasp tumbled from his lips; the impact knocked the breath from his lungs, it sent him staggering as pain slammed through his pelvis, and he barely had time to swing his shield up as the morningstar came crashing down, it thudded hard into his shield raised before his face and the strain of it lanced up his arm below. 

Frantically, wildly he pulled himself back; breath wheezed into his lungs still reeling from shock, too slow, too slow, he was too _stupid_ to see the blow as it came, too _weak_ to stop it; ugly thoughts gnawed at him even as the lieutenant whirled, the dread morningstar came blurring up his front and cruelly hard it collided with his chest-plate. It sent his sword arm skidding aside, it ripped his shield away from his chest and for a moment it left him exposed, frightened, deadened, and suddenly the lieutenant stood before him.

A hand sheathed in blackened steel clamped down upon his wrist and held it fast, his sword dangled uselessly from his fingers numb with concussion, the morningstar's bladed head wrenched his shield-arm askance. Open and cruciform the lieutenant held him, and though he thrashed against that hateful grip he could not pull free.   

How hideous was the press of him; puissance crawled over the lieutenant's armour, it whispered, it clawed, it only made worse the gluttony in his smile, the abject coldness of his eyes as he said, "Do you see me in your dreams, Maitimo?"

A base noise of disgust curled in Maedhros' throat, harder still he wrenched against the lieutenant's grip to no avail; those ensorcelled words wormed inside of him and buried there like hooks. The lieutenant had only to draw them up bloodied. "Do you call out for me, sweetness? Do you beg for me like you used to, all panting and sore and wanting? So desperately eager to please?" 

The lieutenant's breath was hot upon his cheek, it was _unbearable_ ; he could but quiver as the horror of it overwhelmed him, because he knew how this story ended, it had happened before, all of that pain, all of that humiliation, _it had all happened before_ , and he could only drown with the shame of it as the lieutenant sneered, "Do you miss the warmth of my cock inside of you?" 

Something shattered inside of him, it broke open inside of his chest and spilled out only debris; memories wrenched with blackest bile within him and how he screamed in his captor's grip. With a wordless shriek of anguish he shoved against the lieutenant, he pushed him back, away, _away_ ; away so that he could never touch him again, never pollute him again, never make him feel that way ever again, horror smashed through his veins and as at last his sword-arm came free he slammed it upwards. Yet fist and sword met mocking air, for once more the lieutenant feinted away; smug and victorious he stood, limned in ash and bitter smog. 

Panting, shaking, Maedhros faced him, crippling emotion hammered through his chest yet somehow he swallowed it down, and thinly he spat, "I begged nothing from you." 

The arch of the lieutenant's eyebrow was chilling. The derision in his voice cut down to the bone. 

"Come, come," he said. "Lying tongues curry small favour. I thought that we had taught you that, at the least." 

The ignominy of it could have stripped away flesh; trembling and furious and filled with such unquenchable grief Maedhros stood, and desperately he sought to master himself as he hissed, "You taught me nothing." A grating breath passed, and another. "I am free of you." 

At that the lieutenant stood silent, charged puissance flickered in the air between them, and then the lieutenant smiled, and then he laughed. 

"Free," he breathed, he probed at the word, and how crushing was the condescension in his grin. "Free." 

The lieutenant raised his hand, and amid the ephemeral shift of puissant air something focused, something began to congeal. Blurred at first, it hung there shimmering, an opalescent thing of power. Tighter it knotted, it wove and delved and burned, it grew visceral, and Maedhros could only stare as that alien thing swelled before him. Tauter and tauter and _brighter_ it grew until it seared in his vision, white-hot and livid it screamed as if it could scald the very air with its hatred, until suddenly it burst in a cacophony of light; and pain erupted through his chest. 

The faded brand on his chest burned as though it were ignited in flaming pitch, as though it were acid corroding through flesh, muscle, bone; down to the bone it cleaved. It shocked the breath from his lungs in its fury and helplessly he gasped, he floundered, he crumpled into himself as pale scars ran red with agony, and remorselessly the lieutenant watched him. 

"Child," he said softly, cruelly. "You will never be free." 

It took so much effort to breathe, pain redoubled in his chest with his every motion; searing lines of fire charred beneath his ribs, the brand pulsed upon his chest as if it were done anew. Raw and excruciating, he could but tremble beneath its hatred, beneath the revolting smile that curled across the lieutenant's lips, beneath all the truth that it held. Blood dripped from his nose as breath spluttered into his lungs, his knees weakened and with every ounce of will left in him he bade them steady. 

"No..." he gurgled; it was scarcely a word so much as an exhalation of horror. 

For how clearly his folly was revealed to him now; for all the long years that had worn away still nothing had changed, _nothing had changed_ , he would never be free, he would never be free of the things that he had done, of all of the things that were done to him. Breath rattled through his lungs, blood dripped over his lips as still the brand shrieked out its truth; unclean, unloved, _a slave_ , that is all that he was, that was all that he could ever be; all of that misery and pain and humiliation churned in his stomach, all of that guilt buried down so deep yawned open and potent within him. 

He did not bury it deep enough, the wounds of Angband only festered, they did not heal, they haunted him and hunted him and spewed out their infection. In the end, perhaps they drove him mad. 

"No," he spat; with manic eyes he stared at the lieutenant, he clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt. But that could not save him, that could not stop the anguish that roared in his chest, that clawed in his veins.

"No!" he shrieked, blind hysteria shook in his voice as all of that hatred and pain surged up inside of him, it bade him run, flee, fight, _destroy_ ; he grabbed it and he bore it in his shield thrust out before him, he swung it in his sword sent slashing outwards, he tore it apart with his teeth as he lunged for the lieutenant. Yet too slow was his ferocity, too predictable, too _stupid_ ; the cold accusation lurched in his blood as with pitiful ease the lieutenant feinted away to his side. Bodies scuffled madly in the gloom; his sword overreached, his stance faltered, the dreadful morningstar swung out of the smoke, and how he howled as it came crashing down upon his shield-arm. 

Blackest puissance seared behind that single, awful blow; his shield warped, cracked, _shattered_ ; jagged, impossible shards of cloven metal hailed down at his feet and bone beneath it sheared alike. He crumpled, he _crumpled_ , there was nothing he could do but gag as the shock of it slammed through him, he did not even have the breath left to scream as the concussion smote him, as stumbling momentum spurred him beyond the lieutenant's grip and left him there to splutter. 

Ruined metal and leather strappings slid from his arm left useless and seething at his side, blinding sheets of pain slammed through his side and with it everything buckled, the ground heaved beneath his feet and the smoke reeled; he blinked through unfocused eyes as the earth below him tipped, as he gasped and he gasped but he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe_. 

A shock of puissance doubled him over; the brand ate anew into his chest, his sword dropped from spasming fingers and true terror knotted in his stomach. To his knees he all but fell, tightly, instinctively he curled into himself; _like a slave, like a slave_ ; he clasped his broken arm close to his chest and he could only retch as the horror of it pounded through him. He could only kneel there shivering as the lieutenant advanced upon him; blood dripped in dumb, pink strands from his lips, and there was naught that he could do but stare up at his tormentor.

"I pity you, Maitimo," the lieutenant said, cruel and cold he stood aloft. "So much I had thought that you might become; a true scion of the House of Finwë now made wiser by war, a noble king befitting of your bloodline. Yet ever you prove a disappointment. For I see you now, and I see clearly, you are naught but what you ever were. A truant slave, a simpering little wretch unworthy to lick the grit from my boots." 

"That's... that's a lie..." Maedhros gurgled, but how swiftly his words were severed as the lieutenant struck him hard across the face.    

"Pathetic," the lieutenant sneered, and as Maedhros felt his cheek purpling from the blow there was little that he could do but cringe at the lieutenant's feet. And there perhaps instinct betrayed him; the lieutenant stirred at his side and he flinched away, as compulsions born of suffering forced him to move. But too sudden was his motion, too panicked; upon exhausted knees he trembled, he toppled and to his side he fell sprawling, gasping back. Pain seared up his arm as miserably he shivered amid the dirt, and the lieutenant's eyes were merciless as they beheld him. 

"I should drag you back to Angband in chains," he said slowly, ponderously. "For your welcome was never extinguished there. How the masses would _throng_ to see you, our most beloved little lord. Nay," the lieutenant scoffed, "I should take you before the throne, the bleating whelp of a squandered lineage, and you should kneel there before the Elder King, before the Lord of Arda in his wrath, and you will see then how we deal with traitors. Oh, what delicious sport would you give..." 

A whimper of refusal swelled in Maedhros' throat, horror hollowed out his stomach as he lay there sprawled, and as best as he could he curled himself up. His broken, maimed arm lay vulnerable in the dirt, with bloodless fingers he clutched into his left elbow to stabilise it, and the lieutenant stepped over him. 

"But what use would there be in taking hostages," the lieutenant mused. "Your kindred would not pay the ransom of a king newly come to his throne. What value is there in a cripple? A broken, bitter thing like you." 

Hard the lieutenant stamped down upon his wrist, upon the thin skein of skin stretched across severed bones; the whoop of his breath was gut-wrenching. Fragile bones were crushed, fresh agony poured through his veins and he could but shriek, he could but writhe in his suffering as helpless, terrified tears blurred over his eyes. Because deep in his heart he knew it, everything would happen again as it had happened before; they would steal him away, laughing and jeering they would bind him and march him and chain him and make him hurt even more, make him scream, make him do all of those awful, humiliating things. Over and over again; the degradations, the pleas, the aching press of flesh into yielding, sobbing flesh, and he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it again. 

 _He could not do it again._  

Terror scoured him of reason; the smash of a boot into his ribs sent the breath skidding from his lungs, tipped him onto his back, and like a beached, dying thing he could but splutter. Senseless, numbing agony spasmed up his arm, it radiated out from the livid brand upon his chest, and as the lieutenant stood over him how truly wretched he was; it was just like they had told him, and they were right, of course they were right, he was weak, stupid, worthless, he was, he _was_ ; he knew it and he became it and he could not endure it. 

But there was mercy there still, he thought wildly, there was mercy in metal. There was mercy in the lieutenant's hand, bladed and heavy and how fervently he craved it. Pain squeezed like a vice about his chest; blood frothed upon his lips as he coughed, as wheezing he spat, "P-please, then... Do it... F-finish this..."

A long moment passed, it ached away into eternity as the lieutenant gave pause, a troubled look caught across his face. Yet soon he sighed, his cocked his head in grudging resolve, and such was the dizzying, giddying relief that spiralled through Maedhros' stomach as the lieutenant hefted up the morningstar that he nearly choked upon it. The great weapon gleamed, thirsty and menacing and merciful, a salvation; an _ending_ , more than anything in that weary moment Maedhros craved it for what it could be. 

An ending to his bitter toil, an ending to this pain that could not be born, a final moment of suffering to sever all that haunted him, all that exhausted him, and maybe then he could heal.   

With the crazed, lusting focus of a drunkard he stared at it lifted before his face, it blocked out all else with its promise, and yet at the periphery of his vision something blurred. A clutch of feathers swept past him, black and ruffled a raven wheeled above him, it screeched and cawed before plummeting down to perch upon the lieutenant's shoulder.

 _No,_ Maedhros thought, _no, no, no, it could not be_ , the raven croaked urgently in the lieutenant's ear and the moment was slipping away, it was fading, _no_ , the morningstar hesitated as the lieutenant's face grew grave. In its hoarse tongue the raven tokked and cawed, it stole from him what he most desired, no, _no, no, no, please, no_ , for now truly the lieutenant withdrew his weapon, and a queer look crept into his eyes. 

A soft huff of laughter sounded under his breath, a wry smile twisted his lips, and he said, "A strange fortune awaits you, Feanorion. Upon you the weight of doom lies heavily, and that weight is not mine to lift. The Powers of Arda do not lie, and their messengers are swift: I perceive now that it is not by my hand that your fate shall be decided." 

 _"S-serpent!"_ Maedhros hissed, blood and stinging, thwarted emotion clotted in his throat. Still he looked to the morningstar, still he begged for the release that it could give, but now the moment had vanished, it was ripped away, and bitter were the dregs left in him to swill. 

"Venom festers," the lieutenant said strangely, in a voice that was not entirely his own. "You might mask it in dignity, in what veneers of civility that you might conjure up, but you cannot stem the tide, the slow creep of your own infection. You shall learn that, before the end." 

Puissance swirled thick in the lieutenant's shadow, oily and viscous it dripped from his hands, from his words now made fey and terrible in pronouncement. "In sacred light you will be blinded, your hands shall bleed as you seek to grasp it, you will possess it until it scours the flesh from your bones, and you will beg for oblivion then. Of what you claim in greed you shall repent, and revel then in destruction, to be made un-whole and barren. For this Doom was laid upon you, heavier than sin, and doom is the path upon which you hasten, and it is not now for I to waylay your road."

"Go, son of Fëanor! Your time is not yet upon you. Limp back to your brethren, if still they stand. Tell them of your victories here, revel in your might; it is hollow, and it is futile, and it will come to ruin in the end." 

Breath rattled into Maedhros' lungs; despair clotted it there and numbly he lay as the lieutenant's words washed over him, as they bled what little strength he had left from his heart. 

"Go!" the lieutenant snapped; his tone offered no argument, and the raven still perched upon his shoulder _tokked_ in judgement. "You shall find no mercy here. Not the craven kind that you seek." 

How bitter was their parting then, how cruel, crueller than violence; the lieutenant turned from him and stepped away, the morningstar hung dead and dull from his hand, and nothing but humiliation stung in Maedhros' heart. Ashamed and aggrieved he clambered to his feet, dust sloughed from broken arm as he cradled it into his chest, and upon dazed, trembling legs he staggered away. 

Crooked and trackless were his steps, numbing anguish gnawed at him, and in his footprints trod the portents of doom. He was weak, he thought, even as he departed that grim place this he _knew_ , he was arrogant, and false, and all would come to ruin; the wisdom of Angband was potent, its might was impregnable, and it was true, it was all _true_. 

Stupid, weak, vain, _murderer_ ; the evil of Angband pressed into him, twisted him. A pathetic little slave who could not even orchestrate his own demise; the shame of it was unbearable. 

But bear it he must, for a little while, for a little longer; he gathered all of that grief to himself and buried it down deep, under flesh and muscle he buried it there to die, he begged that it might die. And as he staggered back down that hill to what remained of the battlefield, to the embattled arms of his kin and whatever evil lay below, only he could feel its weight pressing there. 

It lay so heavily; a grotesque, embryotic thing at the base of his stomach, cold, and still, and hidden, but so achingly alive.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_Hey so if you've gotten this far then I really hope you enjoyed the fic! I've always wanted to write more of my wonderful, damaged, post-'An Evil Cradling' version of Maedhros, just out of sheer masochism apparently. And throwing Mairon into the mix is really too much of a joy to pass up. He's just such a delight...  So anyway, here was a good stab at it, and an exploration of some wider themes about immortality and death and the aftermath of torture that I have been chatting about with my lovely @crackinthecup._

_As always, questions or comments will be addressed (and cherished) either here on AO3, or in my lair at[markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask). _

_I really hope you've enjoyed the fic! Until next time, theeventualwinner x_


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